There she
sat at the table, solitary and secure.
Breakfast before her, cup of tea beside.
Gazing through the picture window it again struck how the denuding of
the fence, the stripping away of the green curtain, had left her exposed. Sitting here though, towards the back of the
room, it was more like a bird-spotting hide.
Where are
those binoculars?
A memory
floods in of an expidition long years previous, on marshes low and wet. Climbing high wooden steps to a hut on
stilts. Stuck out like a beacon on these
mudflats. Trees on the horizon, sea to the east, it seemed barren. It was cold.
Flasks of hot water and teabags were in evidence. Sandwiches and chocolate packed neatly in
knapsacks. Charts and pencils at the
ready, the young ornithologists endeavoured, for hours, to tick off the species
on offer. Sightings came sporadically. One pair of spyglasses between the six of
them and the leader.
A few
waders. A migrant goose. Somebody claimed a heron, but confirmation
was lacking.
Came the
time for the sandwiches to unpack.
Rustlings of butter paper (no plastic boxes then) and the hiss of flasks
unplugged.
Then the
flutter of wings. Pigeons several, as if
from some portal rent in the air, appeared at the hide's viewing sill. Indeed, they invited themselves in.
"Throw bread, or the specs get it!" |
At that
moment the reminisce is broken. Would
you credit it? Papa and Punya the
roosting pigeons of the Bathroom Culvert decided to pop in the open window for a "Hi
and how are you and are there any crumbs left?"
What,
you're are asking yourself Dear Reader, has this to do with the mental state
mentioned in the title?
Ah well,
this was the point where the YAMster took on the cackle-mode. It began low and gurgled up at a steady
pace. The confluence of time and event
is what had tickled her funny cells.
There was no stopping that train then.
Anybody outside the window would have wondered at the "cyaaaag
haahahaahhh bbwrrrashhaaaaa, sshaaawwwww…………." and the gasping for breath
between outbursts. They would have been
wondering about the mental stability of the occupant of room 102.
Who was
lost in the irony of the barren barricades being assaulted by the perennial and
impertinent pigeon!
The giggles then?
ReplyDeleteHari OM
ReplyDelete...oh yeah, big time! One of those pressure release types. &<>